


The World by Storm

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: FE Gen Week, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Cindered Shadows DLC Spoilers, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Platonic Relationships, mostly mid-timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Ferdinand had a simple strategy: marry Constance von Nuvelle, unseat his father, and guide Adrestia to prosperity.Nothing goes as planned.
Relationships: Constance von Nuvelle & Ferdinand von Aegir
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fire Emblem Gen Week 2020





	1. Some Silly Tryst

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Gen Week event runners for organizing it, and thank you to Phrenotobe for naming Ferdinand’s horse and offering encouragement.

It speaks to Constance von Nuvelle’s talents that even while everyone spins in circles, the chandelier leaving spots in their eyes, she manages to avoid Ferdinand’s gaze. One would think that in a moment of gaiety she would forget herself and rotate halfway, coming face-to-face with him, or meet his eye over a few decorated shoulders. She never forgets. She remains purposeful, even while her laugh carries over the music, and her dress floats above the ground.

 _Petty_ , he thinks, as if he is not standing by the snack table, his grip tight around a glass. He eliminates his slouch and beams at Bernadetta, who hides on the other side of the table, making a pastry disappear. He approaches to offer his hand. Even if he doubts he shall rekindle their parents’ marriage plans, there is nothing wrong with enjoying a friend’s company.

Marriage plans. He cannot help but search over his shoulder for a glimpse of recognition. 

“Um, are you all right?” Bernadetta asks. He throws her his most reassuring smile.

“I was just finding a private place to dance, should it help you feel comfortable. Perhaps in that corner?”

“Oh, all right, as long as nobody watches. But, um, if I step all over your feet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fear not. I have the sturdiest of feet,” he says. Her spraining his wrist only deepened their friendship, though he doubts that would comfort her.

If they could move on from that incident, then perhaps, if he speaks with Constance… Yet, he must focus on being gentle with Bernadetta, not catching another’s attention.

After the dance, he steps away from the shadows. It is unacceptable for the heir of Aegir not to dazzle at a ball filled with his peers. That such a thought would hurt Constance does not change his duty, even if it keeps his heart from being as light as his feet. 

He distracts himself by challenging Edelgard to a dancing competition (she declines), offering a drink to Dorothea (she takes it, and declines a dance), and, in a moment of true desperation, peeling Hubert away from Edelgard’s suitors with a challenge to waltz (by the power of some dark magic, he accepts, and Ferdinand spends long minutes with an odd heat beneath his skin). 

The hours pass in a whirl, until the lights melt everyone’s edges, and she never looks at him, not once.

* * *

They always used to acknowledge each other, from their first introduction—her clutching fluffy skirts in a curtsy while he bobbed—to the last ball they attended together. In between, she swapped her pigtails for short braids pinned up with purple bows. He envied such options when his hair stuck out in the tiniest tail.

At that time, he invited her to sneak out to the balcony. He had just turned 13, and this was the done thing, apparently. They emerged into dusk, everything a muddled turquoise, lacking sunset pinks or dazzling stars. They stared at each other in the grey light. Nobody had told him if his punch was supposed to slosh in his stomach, or how to kiss her, or if he should actually want to. She folded her hands like this was all a formality, and her possible discomfort made him throw up his sweaty palms.

“We are good nobles, you know, followers of Seiros,” he babbled. “We should wait until marriage.”

She gasped, and his words caught up to him. Before he could retract them, she threw back her head and laughed. Its suddenness almost knocked him over the railing.

“You sly dog! And here I thought this was about some silly tryst. Imagine the heights our territories would reach should we team up,” she said.

He leapt at the change in direction. “Why stop at our territories? Would all of Adrestia not benefit from our sterling teamwork? You shall have perfected weather-altering magic by then, of course.” 

“Yes, as you shall have found a way to end our elders’ corruption,” she said. Though overthrowing his father still unsettled Ferdinand, enough so that he had only told Constance his plan, he could not deny the seed of triumph it planted. Just as he convinced himself his tight stomach had always been from excitement, she sobered, looking out over the balcony. “Alas, our union is impossible.” 

“What? Why?”

“House Nuvelle would never arrange my marriage to one of the great noble houses.” Her expression hardened. He floundered before puffing up.

“Did you not just say I would set the nobility on the right course? Fear not, Constance. This is but a hurdle to prove that nothing is impossible for us.”

With a flourish, he waved his hand over the balcony, over all of Enbarr below. Her smiling face lifted, a sun to replace that which had set.

“Very well. But I am still a lady, you know. I require proper treatment.” She raised her chin and held out her hand. It did not make his stomach convulse to take it, if he had only to dip and kiss her knuckles. They whispered schemes in the twilight before returning to the ballroom.

One of the boys who had put the thought in Ferdinand’s head, who he did not favor anyway, smirked at them. They ignored him. Even while taking turns with other partners, they shared conspiratorial looks across the room, understanding what nobody else did.


	2. A Broken Mirror

Ferdinand fends off the sun with an arm. The gall of it, to be so much, and so hard to escape. A taste of his own medicine, no doubt.

He shares his bed with a wad of laundry, a bag of jerky, and a book he creased in the night. Days off used to be filled to the brim with training, studying, challenging Edelgard, private singing practice, tea with Lorenz, more training, and a ride. Today, the ride is all he gets up for. A little exercise can cure everything, or so he used to tell people.

On the way to the stables, he sidesteps chunks of rock, pieces of a wall he may or may not have torn down. To think, he considered his plans to overthrow his father daring. Less than a year into the war, he is stationed back at Garreg Mach. His is a token force to keep the church from getting ideas, but they will not be there long enough to pick up the rubble. In truth, he is to protect Edelgard, who pretends she is not here to search for the professor along with a path forward. As she has not asked for his help in finding either, he can only do his own searching.

His sweet Peony’s open stall door quickens his pace. He finds her standing out front, letting Constance brush her white mane with rote, gentle motions.

“My apologies for intruding on you and your fine mare. I have soiled her,” she says.

“On the contrary, she looks silky and relaxed. Thank you for tending to her. I should have done it sooner.”

“I am sure a general of your caliber has other duties.”

The words slide a knife between his ribs as surely as her sharp rebukes. “I was actually about to lift my spirits with a ride.” He checks that they are alone. Nobody need learn about his dragging spirits, but here stands Constance, the most vivacious person he knows, with her chin bowed and her voice thin. “You are welcome to join me, if you would like.”

“I doubt my spirits can be lifted, but I shall accompany you if you wish,” Constance says. Peony knickers softly and nuzzles her cheek. Ferdinand’s heart stirs awake.

“If you would rather not retrieve your pegasus, Peony seems to like you. We can share.”

“If you think it best.”

Where he once would have made a thousand thoughtless decisions, this small judgment seems worth questioning. It would relieve him to hear her forthright opinions, even if they cut deep—but in his state, he cannot judge another for being a shell of themself. All he can do is prepare Peony while Constance shadows him.

He climbs into the saddle and strokes Peony’s neck, a little surer with the familiar position. As he holds out a hand to Constance, her request to pull up a climber comes to mind, and he almost falls. Even now, her grip is so strong.

She settles sidesaddle to wrap her arms around his waist, careful not to cleave to his back. It is like looking into a broken mirror, the fragments of what he assumed his life would be at 19. Regardless of the shattered image, he leads Peony into a walk, his pace measured with Constance’s safety and comfort at stake.

They ride out of the gates and along winding trails, descending together down the mountain. Every rustle makes him twitch. He cannot help but search for a flash of paler green among the foliage, or with his recent luck, a sniper.

He steers them into more open land, where he can breathe easier and feel the wind against his face. Its bite wakes him up, and steady clopping reassures him that Peony, at least, retains faith in him. His nerves tighten when they reach the field of that first mock battle, back when triumphing over other houses was a matter of pride.

Constance’s hold tightens around him, her head pressing between his shoulder blades. Breathing becomes difficult again as he feels her tension, aware she is relying on him, after he already failed her.

He brings them to dismount at the edge of town. Even without evidence of an attack, war hangs over it like smoke, as the few shoppers milling about speak in murmurs and watch their visitors without greetings. Ferdinand keeps close to Constance. As the ride has not improved her complexion, he inquires after her health. 

“The sun,” she says. She does not clarify.

“It is rather bright today.”

She turns toward the nearest building. “Might I impose upon you to join me inside?”

Her pace quickens, and he hastens to follow. The boutique is full of delicate clothing and empty of other customers. Constance throws her head back and marches over to the merchant, to whom she inquires after the latest styles. Fashion must truly perk her up. It is another slice of his parallel world, but Ferdinand would rather follow the thread of Constance’s good cheer than dwell on that.

Before long, he narrows down a gift: a white lace parasol with pink and powder blue trim. “A perfect fit for you,” he says. Her expression darkens.

“Ah, yes, a trinket to block the sun will fix me right up. Why didn’t I think of that! And which of us has coffers to draw from for it?”

 _Fix me_? What in Fódlan does that mean? He spies the price tag with a sharp _oh_ and settles his empty hand on his hip, his head aching from the shop’s lavender perfume. “It just made me think of you. Forget I said anything.”

“I have already forgotten." She turns back to the merchant, whose interest wanes upon realizing the pair has no money.

The moment they leave, the presence leaks out of her. As he wonders how he pushed her back into a valley, sunlight flashes off of the nearest puddle, glassy like her eyes.

Oh. Oh, what a fool he is.

She waits. He stands with his own arms limp, unsure how to shield her from the sky and himself all at once, with his horse her only means of travel.

“I am sorry,” he says. “I was unaware of your…” He cuts himself off at her grimace. Swallowing, he holds out his hand. “Thank you for joining me. Perhaps we should return to the monastery for tea.”

“As you say.” She slips her hand into his. The warmth hurts.

* * *

On a grey, drizzly day, they stand at the threshold of the muggy air outside, where the world tries to stand still. It has not stopped tilting beneath his feet. Perhaps it is the same for her, even as she lifts her chin toward the clouds.

“It is, ah, lovely weather,” he says. “Would you care to join me for a ride?”

“Of course you would prefer more pleasant company than the other day.”

“That is not so! I only thought you would enjoy it. You look so peaceful when you gaze up at an overcast sky. But we can ride on a sunny day, if you prefer, or not at all.”

She chews her lip, then stops before she can mess up her lipstick, a purple shade that looks borrowed from Yuri. “I would rather not ride in the sun, and I would rather not avoid riding.” She retrieves her jacket. He rushes to help her put it on. “You will aid me in readying my horse, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course!”

There is a spring in his step as they round the bend to the stables, forcing him to slow before he trips on the slippery ground. It recalls a childhood of jumping into puddles when nobody was looking. He straightens as they pass guards he outranks even now, true adults who did not miss their graduation just this year. Constance’s laugh, high and clear in the haze, makes it all matter less.

He and Peony follow her lead out of the monastery and into the valley. The wind batters him with droplets, sticking his hair to his neck. His heart pounds as they shift from a canter into a gallop. Each time one of them catches the other’s eye and surges forward, it brings them both farther ahead, like they can outrun the rain.

The sky darkens, trying to menace them. He laughs into the wind. Even on clear days, Constance can summon lightning to strike enemies out of his path. The heavens can do their worst.


	3. The Phoenixes’ Duet

Ferdinand hunches over a table in the underground library, shielded by a fortress of books. The dust he disturbs hovers in shafts of light beside the mossy, spiraling staircases. He keeps circling back to a tome of banned legends, to an image of a flaming bird, large and sharp as an eagle, that rises from its own ashes.

Even this library cannot contain everything hidden from him—his father’s crimes, Edelgard and Hubert’s schemes, and now these scraps salvaged from the church. There must be more lurking under the surface, an explanation for the shadowy figures plaguing Garreg Mach. Abyss, a place he once would have shunned, is his only recourse.

For her part, Constance seems at home, humming as she flits from book to implement. Her voice keeps him from going stir-crazy. A flash of light emits from her station, and she stands with a triumphant note.

“I’ve done it. This will keep our troops safe _and_ impress Edelgard,” she says. She sets her hands on her hips. It would look achingly familiar, had she not already advised Edelgard. After Ferdinand's lifetime spent trying to earn Edelgard’s trust, she has borrowed both Constance and the professor’s ears within a year of their meeting.

“She already seems quite impressed with you,” he says, closing his book of legends—an impractical subject, it now seems. Though Constance retains her stance, her voice loses its hum.

“Naturally, but I am no fool. The tides change quickly in war. One can lose everything in a single turn of the sun.”

Her words chasten him. Begrudging others’ successes will not aid his efforts. When he rises to inspect her work, she holds out a parasol, both of her hands gripping it as if it were a lance. It weighs the same in his palms.

“It’s not as stylish as the one you coveted the other day, but it offers superior protection,” she says.

“Protection? Of what sort?”

“House Nuvelle has perfected defensive magic. However, I can only aid so many soldiers at once. Thus, I shall enchant items to pass out to everyone.”

The image of his cavalry carrying parasols into battle is branded into his mind. He spins the prototype around before resting it against his shoulder.

“You want the army to ride out with parasols. Heavy ones. Does it function differently than a shield?” he asks.

“So I may still be working out the logistics.” She squeaks out a laugh before groaning. “You might admire at least one of my ideas.”

“On the contrary, I admire all of them.” He gestures with the parasol toward her table laden with notes, vials, and glowing metal instruments. “I have no talent for magic. You have more than that—you have the ambition to change reality itself. I cannot even imagine the new possibilities you can create.”

Her grin widens even as her chin dips. “Of course. _Impossible_ is not even in my extensive vocabulary,” she says. “That said, it may be back to the drawing board for the parasols.” 

He does a few practice jabs with his. She swipes it before he can break it, and they return to their tables, her to another project and him to refocus his research.

Without the sun for reference, minutes and hours blend before Constance summons him.

“I’m working on a more offensive means of putting magic in a non-mage’s hands. Behold!” She sweeps her arm over dozens of cloudy green bottles that look emptied from Abyss’s bar.

“Bottles? What do they do?” he asks.

“Contain things, of course. I’ve heard it said that inventing new spells requires lightning in a bottle. And so, ta-da! These bottles shall be filled with lightning.” She flings her hands over her head, fingers outstretched as if to zap the table. 

“How inventive. And front line soldiers can attack with these?”

“Exactly! Well, eventually, they will be able to. Am I not brilliant?”

Others may mistake it for his former ego. In truth, that she can see such potential in a collection of dirty glass is a gift she takes for granted.

“You are,” he says. “You truly are.”

* * *

Constance does not manage to fit lightning in a bottle without shattering the glass. After they clean it up, the frizzy hair around her red face resembles little bolts, and Ferdinand suggests a break. She leads him back to her room. Even as her escort, he cannot ignore his trespass with Abyss’s residents giving him hard looks. The impropriety of entering a lady’s room seems minor in comparison, as so many things do these days.

At least, until he finds Hapi curled up in the bottom bunk, fast asleep. “I do not wish to disturb her,” Ferdinand whispers, stepping back. Constance closes the door behind him.

“Dear Hapi will not wake until the sun does.” Constance tucks the blanket around Hapi’s shoulders, her expression soft. Ferdinand folds his hands behind him and looks away. When he turns back, Constance has enchanted a sheet to hang in front of the bunk.

He walks carefully around the clothes and armor strewn across the floor, past a pile of books that hides a snack stash. The back shelf holds a more orderly row of makeup jars, two teacups, and a vase of dying roses.

Constance retrieves a small mirror and voices her displeasure. Her free hand fusses with her bangs.

“Allow me,” Ferdinand says.

He takes the proffered hairbrush and tries to remember how to be gentle; it comes naturally with a horse’s mane, but not with human hair, as he yanks his own every morning. It has grown to an awkward, mid-sized mullet around his shoulders, getting in the way and making him grimace at his reflection. As cutting it seems the greater hassle, he avoids Constance’s mirror, tucking his chin to focus on her hair, which has grown similarly. It feels odd to look down at her crown with how high she carries herself.

At first, the line of her shoulders is strained. As he cards the brush through her hair, she leans into it, and her shoulders lower. Perhaps, like him, she glimpses a shifted timeline; she once expected a maid to brush her daily.

She tilts her head back, gently bumping under his chin, and reaches up to touch a lock of hair by his ear. “Yours curls so naturally.” She sighs. “Some of the ladies at court have a full head of ringlets. Would I not wear the style better?”

He cannot be sure that is still the fashion, nor that Constance would keep up such a style in war, when neither of them can manage a haircut.

“You would. You would be the loveliest,” he says.

Quiet lasts for a few breaths. Until recently, he never appreciated being able to hear himself and others breathe.

She spins away from him. “Nothing is stopping me from being the loveliest now. Or you, for that matter.”

“Me?”

She roots around in a drawer. “You didn’t think I accepted favors without returning them, did you?” She pulls out a nest of ribbons and fake flowers, color that will not fade underground. “Now, turn around.”

He does, and tries not to tense at the feeling of someone behind him, poking at his head. Someone in his cohort has to not suspect everyone of being an assassin. As she works, she sings under her breath, soothing him.

_Sing out over peaks, ring out over valleys…_

“Did you make that up just now?” he asks.

“I am a genius, after all,” she says a little too quickly. “There! Behold my masterpiece.” She holds the mirror in front of him, and he almost recoils from the dissonance: a tiny braid at the nape of his scarred neck, with flowers woven into his hair and tucked behind his ear. She ducks around his shoulder to grin. He cannot help but smile back.

“I fear I am overdressed,” he says, and grabs one of the tackiest flowers to foist upon her. Her affront turns into a giggle as she tickles him, creating an opening to tuck a flower into his collar. Their fingers become weapons in the deftest of wars, hushed so as not to wake Hapi. Ferdinand’s cheeks hurt nonetheless.

When they run out of ammunition, they crowd in front of the mirror. Two of her headbands compete for space behind his ears, and her nose is dusted with glitter.

“It is a shame for such fashionable people not to go anywhere,” Constance says.

He removes the headbands. “How about a dance?”

* * *

The hall once transformed into a ballroom is empty. A draft comes through a missing chunk of wall, the rubble sprayed across the dusty floor. Constance lights a few lanterns with a snap of her fingers.

“Dim light creates atmosphere,” she says.

Any complaints die in his throat. He turns to her with a bow. “May I have this dance?”

His hand feels too large in hers. She rests a palm against his waist and tilts her head.

“Oh, did you expect to lead?” she asks. He grumbles wordlessly, but does not mind holding her shoulder.

“It is too bad we have no orchestra,” he says.

“I already sang for you. It’s only fair you accompany us.”

Their merriment allows him to hum without feeling self-conscious. He starts them with a simple waltz, letting them relearn each other’s movements. She steps, and he follows, keeping his longer legs in check. Before long, they slip into more complex footwork and flashier moves, spinning out before coming back together, flying higher and higher above the dust.

They end, holding a dramatic pose for a note before she laughs, her cheeks a healthy color. “Oh, how I missed this,” she says.

“As did I.” It comes out quieter than he meant, the wide chamber’s emptiness returning. She sobers and steps out of his careful hold.

“Ferdinand, I fear I must clarify something.” 

“What is it?”

Did he overstep? Did he hurt her? Does she hate him? If only he could still read her thoughts from the other end of a room.

“This,” she says, waving her hand, “is not, it.” Her extensive vocabulary seems as redacted as the library until she blurts, “We are friends.”

He tilts his head before smiling. “I certainly hoped we were. I know I hurt you before, and again when we went into town, but I have been grateful for your—”

“It is all behind us.” She waves her hand again, more insistent. “And so are certain agreements we made, once upon a time, at a real ball.”

“Oh.” He straightens his head. “Oh! Constance, no, I did not think… You have no need to worry.”

Perhaps they would have been a ruling couple to top the history books. But life has zigzagged like lightning since then, and in the tempest, there is nothing he needs more than a friend. 

She breathes out. “Ah, good. Well! That settles that.” She brushes off her hands, as if to be rid of the dust the pair has kicked up. He rubs his neck.

“If I may make one thing clear, first?” he asks. “This is real, too. It may not be what we envisioned, but it is just as important to me.”

It makes his heart pound to cast aside the fragments he glimpsed and offer what remains. She removes an artificial flower clinging to her hair and tucks it behind his ear.

“Of course. Nothing can prevent us from taking the world by storm,” she says. “Now, are you going to walk me back to my lodgings, or are you not a gentleman?”

He chuckles as she links arms with him. “It would be my honor,” he says, and crosses the hall with her into the night.


End file.
